


The Sad Bastards Club

by liquid_dreams



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2016-05-09
Packaged: 2018-06-07 09:58:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6799264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liquid_dreams/pseuds/liquid_dreams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drunk Michael is remarkably more honest than sober Michael.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sad Bastards Club

It's Michael's 21st birthday and they're celebrating in a crowded bar, both his birthday and the successful robbery two towns away and the fact that they can get legally drunk now. In the blurry haze of the bar the reasons get kind of mixed up. All Michael knows is the wet heat of the girl grinding on his leg, the sickly sweet smell of her perfume and the brittle texture of her hair in his hand. He feels like the king of the fucking world right then and the most natural thing is to look around for Trevor, to see if he's feeling it, too. Trevor's still at their table with a neat row of shot glasses lined up in front of him. His hair really needs a cut, flashes through Michael's hazy mind. It's resembling a real dark brown bird's nest now. Some chick is trying to talk to him since he can obviously afford his drinks. Her hand's on his shoulder and she's pushing her tits out like a champ, but Trevor's got his eyes fixed on the shot glasses he's demolishing in rapid order. Michael's mood dampens when he sees his best buddy all grumpy like this. Even though he acts like a crazy motherfucker most of the time Michael knows he can get really lost in his own head. So he releases the girl from his grasp with an apologetic grin and slides over to the table. The pretty brunette next to Trevor pouts and takes off, making room for Michael to plop down on the chair. 

"Whassap, T?" he asks and slings one arm around the back of Trevor's chair. 

"Some piss poor booze they got here. It's watered down probably." Trevor says and pushes one of the glasses over to him. 

Michael makes a sceptic noise and sniffs the amber liquid. "God this smells like cat piss."

"Tastes like it, too."

"How'd you know what cat piss tastes like, huh?"

"Betcha'd love to know, Mikey." At least he's smiling now.

Michaels grins back, satisfied that Trevor's good mood seems to be returning. He's been quiet lately when they're not doing jobs. Michael can see that something's on his mind, but if he doesn't wanna talk about it he won't push. Trevor grabs a fresh shot glass and clinks it to his. 

"Cheers, buddy. Here's hoping your balls finally drop this year." Trevor grins and throws the shot back. 

Michael's eyes linger on his chapped lips for a moment, before he remembers himself and throws the cat piss liquor back. It's vile and will probably give him a hell of a hangover tomorrow, but Michael doesn't care. He lets his gaze wander over the bar, taking in all the girls with their poofy hair and frilly skirts. Who cares if his eyes snag on some guys' jeans-clad backsides. He's drunk, Michael reasons and relaxes a bit; people think all kind of bullshit when they're drunk. Trevor's eyes are fixed on him with a shrewd look and Michael is almost afraid he knows what he's thinking. 

"Man, I need a fucking smoke. You comin' with?" He asks and pushes himself off the table hoping he'll say no.

"Yeah," Trevor replies, just to be a contrary bastard probably.

The air outside is fresh, but still warm. Some crickets are making noise from the overgrown grass behind the parking lot. Michael fumbles for his pack of smokes and withdraws one. 

"Let me get that," Trevor says, uncharacteristically quiet as he reaches into his pocket and draws a lighter. 

Michael eyes him, but Trevor's brown eyes are unreadable as he lights his cigarette. Michael takes a deep breath and leans against the wall. Only when it starts to burn in his lungs does he release the smoke into the starry night sky. They're quiet for some minutes, just staring up at the stars. 

"D'you ever think about what you're gonna be doing twenty years from now?" Michael snaps his mouth shut as soon as the question leaves him.

"Well, I'm probably gonna be dead in a ditch somewhere." Trevor chuckles mirthlessly and crosses his arms in front of his chest.

Michael chances a glance at him from the corner of his eyes. He knows Trevor's serious. It's not cold enough to be unpleasant, but he can still see a fine smattering of goosebumps rise on the other's arms. The unpleasant tug in his gut is back. Trevor's always been skinnier than him, but lately he's gained some weight since he can now afford to eat regularly. All the running and climbing made him grow some muscles, too, but he's still a damn beanpole in comparison to Michael. 

"What about you, Mikey?" He turns his intense stare towards Michael, who shrugs. 

"All I know is that I'm gonna die with a gun in my hand," Michael grins and imagines heroic showdowns with a dozen cops like in the movies he used to watch.

"Ha! That's my man!" Trevor crows and throws his arm around Michael's shoulders. 

He's is acutely aware of every inch where they're touching, can feel the heat burning his shoulders. Trevor smells like sweat and booze with an underlying note that's just him. Michael takes a deep breath, feels the booze pumping through his system and relaxes a bit against Trevor's side. 

"It's ok we're bros, right?" He mutters, feeling the booze catch up with him and make his head heavy.

"Yeah, sure. Hey, now don't go passing out on me! I ain't carrying your fat carcass back to the motel!"

"'m not passing out, moron. 'm just restin' my head." Michael muttered and put his head on Trevor's shoulder. 

It was warm and he could feel the muscles move beneath him as Trevor put his arm more firmly around his middle and began to haul him away from the bar, swearing like a sailor the whole time. 

"You stupid asshole, how much do you weigh? Feels like a goddamn ton. I should just drop you and steal your wallet. Maybe I'll buy myself a nice hooker or two," Trevor hisses as he drags him through the lobby of their motel. 

"Better make sure she's blind and deaf, then." Michael mutters mulishly and grabs the doorframe to keep himself upright as Trevor unlocks their door.

"You're real funny, sugartits. Go lie down before you fall on your dumb face."

"Whatever," Michael mutters and tugs on his leather jacket until it slides down. 

His jeans are a bit trickier and he gives up when the buttons refuse to cooperate. An amused snort alerts him that Trevor is watching him with a crooked grin from his own bed. 

"If you want me to undress you, just say the words."

Michael considers it once, twice, before he shakes his head and stumbles over to his own bed. 

"Fine, suit yourself," he hears Trevor mutter and it's probably the booze, but he does sound a little put off.

Thing is, he'd let Trevor do whatever the hell he wanted to him. Just as long as he didn't have to remember it in the morning, because sober Michael was an asshole. Drunk Michael grins into his pillow. Isn't he just one hell of a sad bastard?


End file.
